"What do you mean?" he asked, and the soft quality of his voice underwent a change. Her voice was full of angry tears when she answered him. "I should not want an erratic creature who puts horrid sentiments into indifferent verse. I repeat, I should want a man." His face went livid. "Do you know whom you are talking to?" he asked, raising his voice. "I am talking to Thornton Lyne," said she, breathing quickly, "the proprietor of Lyne's Stores, the employer of Odette Rider who draws three pounds every week from him." He was breathless with anger. "Be careful!" he gasped. "Be careful!" "I am speaking to a man whose whole life is a reproach to the very name of man!" she went on speaking rapidly. "A man who is sincere in nothing, who is living on the brains and reputation of his father, and the money that has come through the hard work of better men. "You can't scare me," she cried scornfully, as he took a step towards her. "Oh, yes, I know I'm going to leave your employment, and I'm leaving to-night!" The man was hurt, humiliated, almost crushed by her scorn. This she suddenly realised and her quick woman's sympathy checked all further bitterness. "I'm sorry I've been so unkind," she said in a more gentle tone. "But you rather provoked me, Mr. Lyne." He was incapable of speech and could only shake his head and point with unsteady finger to the door. "Get out," he whispered. Odette Rider walked out of the room, but the man did not move. Presently, however, he crossed to the window and, looking down upon the floor, saw her trim figure move slowly through the crowd of customers and assistants and mount the three steps which led to the chief cashier's office. "You shall pay for this, my girl!" he muttered. He was wounded beyond forgiveness. He was a rich man's son and had lived in a sense a sheltered life. He had been denied the advantage which a public school would have brought to him and had gone to college surrounded by sycophants and poseurs as blatant as himself, and never once had the cold breath of criticism been directed at him, except in what he was wont to describe as the "reptile Press." He licked his dry lips, and, walking to his desk, pressed a bell. After a short wait--for he had purposely sent his secretary away--a girl came in. "Has Mr. Tarling come?" he asked. "Yes, sir, he's in the board-room. He has been waiting a quarter of an hour." He nodded. "Thank you," he said. "Shall I tell him----" "I will go to him myself," said Lyne. He took a cigarette out of his gold case, struck a match and lit it. His nerves were shaken, his hands were trembling, but the storm in his heart was soothing down under the influence of this great thought. Tarling! What an inspiration! Tarling, with his reputation for ingenuity, his almost sublime uncanny cleverness. What could be more wonderful than this coincidence?